


painting the sky

by NatureGirl202



Series: silent nights and fitful sleep [3]
Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/M, War Hero Shepard, artistic shepard, eathborn shepard, i am nervous lol, my first mass effect fic !!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9876443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatureGirl202/pseuds/NatureGirl202
Summary: a sunset and paint on the nose, or shore leave after the battle of the citadel.





	

The aftermath of the battle on the Citadel is chaotic. After filing his reports and giving his debriefing, though, the chaos mostly seems to move around him in the form of bustling people of pretty much every race. Most are talking so fast they’re all starting to sound like Salarians.

The buzz of activity has just become a dull background noise by now, and not because of his growing migraine, but because of the news he’d just been delivered. The Normandy’s leaving the Citadel docks in but a few hours, headed to Earth for three weeks of shore leave for the Alliance crew. It’s well-deserved, he knows, but what’s bothering him isn’t the shore leave itself, it’s the person who deserves it the most: the same person, if he’s being honest, he wants to spend the shore time with.

The problem? He has absolutely no idea what she wants and he hasn’t even seen her since she climbed out of the wreckage of Sovereign and was whisked away to medical. He’s had enough time to develop doubts about… whatever it is they have. Does she want more, now that they’ve survived the near impossible? Or was it just one night brought on by the fear of death? He remembers the look in her eyes when she’d gazed up at him after he’d laid her on the bed and removed her shirt: red hair fanned over the pillow, a smile tilting up the corners of her lips, chest heaving, and looking freer than he’s ever seen. But had he just been imagining that spark in her eyes, simply seeing what he wanted to?

He runs a hand roughly down his face and then through his hair, continuing his pacing outside of Huerta Memorial, his running thoughts not helping with his growing migraine in the slightest.

“Isn’t there some old expression about waring a hole in the floor?” He jumps and turns at the familiar voice. Shepard stands there, a small, amused smile working its way onto her lips as she watches him. He can’t help but eye her over, to make sure she’s truly alright. Her left arm hangs in a sling, which doesn’t surprise him, as he’d already guessed it was broken. That appears to be the worst of it, though, aside from some scratches. Of course, he can’t see beyond her clothes, and that thought brings with it flashbacks and warm cheeks.

She looks surprisingly put together for someone who had pretty much just saved the entire galaxy some hours ago. She’s wearing the typical Alliance uniform and her hair is in its usual tight bun. He has the urge to undo it and tangle his fingers into the soft locks like he had the night before and his hand twitches as he fights it.

“I was just…” he fumbles for a response and settles on honesty. “I was just waiting for you.” Her smile seems to grow for a moment, before she glances away almost shyly and tucks a nonexistent lock of hair behind her ear. “I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

She nods and begins to walk and he automatically follows. “I’m fine. Arm took the worst of it, but it’s a clean break, so could certainly be worse.” Oh, he knows. “Worse” is the least of what’d been going through his mind when he’d believed she’d been crushed beneath Sovereign’s rubble. “ _So_ , three weeks of Earthly shore leave. Any idea what you’re gonna get up to?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “I was thinking I’d go to my parents’ orchard. They won’t be there, but…” He ends with a shrug, not sure how to bring up the invite that’s been brewing in his mind. He supposes he should first see if she already has any plans. “You?”

She gives a noncommittal grunt. “Probably hole up in my apartment.”

“You have an apartment?” The question is out before he can stop it. He just can’t seem to control his natural curiosity with her, a part of him wanting to know and absorb every little detail about her it can. That, and she’d never really shown herself to be someone with much _permanence_ in her life.

She lets out a breath. “If you can call it that. I just didn’t want to pay for a hotel every time I was on Earth. Though, honestly, hotels have more furniture.” They lapse into silence then, steps in sync as they head toward the docks. Eventually, though, he feels the need to speak, and lightly touches her arm. She stops and turns to him. He swallows, wondering how to get the words out through the insecurity he’s been feeling.

“You know, when you didn’t show up in the wreckage, for a moment I thought…” He trails off, not sure how to express how he’d felt thinking she was most likely dead. She watches him for a moment, before giving a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes and a shrug of her right shoulder.

“I’m a survivor” she says simply, as if stating a fact as simple as the weather. “Sometimes it feels like that’s all I really know how to do.” Her gaze is far away, maybe remembering her time growing up as an orphan in the slums of Earth, or maybe being all that stood between innocent colonists and Batarian slavers on Elysium. He’s slightly reeling, still not used to these surprising moments of honesty and vulnerability from her. There are two different sides to her and he wonders if he’ll ever find the middle ground.

He wants to. And he thinks he might have a way, along with a way to word his invitation. He takes a step closer to her, stealing her attention away from whatever memory she’d been lost in. “Well, uh, how about living a little?” He falters, though, under her gaze. “I mean, if you want to spend the shore leave with me, I’d like that, but if not, then that’s, really, alright.”

She eyes him for a moment that is entirely too long in his mind, before lessening the distance between them even further and taking a step forward of her own. Her right hand reaches out and briefly brushes against his, while a small, genuine smile forms on her lips. “Ok.”

* * *

In the end, he’s not quite sure he came through with his offer, as they hardly end up ever leaving the house. The furthest they get is a stroll through the orchard, recounting random tales of their pasts to one another. They’re nothing big, just small events. He tells her of the time he’d climbed his parents’ roof only to fall off and break his arm. She tells him of the time she stole a hat right off a police officer’s head and got away with it by hiding in a trash can for five hours. He recounts his father taking time after dinner every evening for two weeks to teach him poker. She talks of first learning art from some older kids who did wall graffiti.

The sun is setting on their last day there and he’s just finished with the dishes from their dinner. He’d volunteered for the task of cleaning them, of course, but had admittedly been a little surprised when she hadn’t insisted on helping and had simply wandered off. He exits the kitchen and begins strolling through the house in search, glancing into every room he passes for some sign of her. He checks his bedroom, where they’d been staying. Her suitcase lies in the corner, never unpacked, her clothes pristinely folded in a way that only could’ve been taught by the Alliance. It had been surreal for a while, seeing her in casual clothes, as he hadn’t seen her don anything but the usual Alliance uniform since she’d stepped foot aboard the Normandy. He’d found out her everyday attire mostly consisted of jeans and casual shirts, most of which white. He’d asked her about her fondness for the not-color early on in this vacation, and she’d just shrugged and told him it reminded her of a blank canvas.

Either way, she’s not in the room and that only leaves him with one other possibility, if she’s even still in the house: the master bedroom. He makes his way there and, upon first inspection, doesn’t notice a thing, but then he feels a feint breeze and the sound of rustling leaves that could only mean a window is open. He steps into the room and sees her and his breath can’t help but catch in his throat. She’s on the balcony, perched on a barstool he really should’ve noticed was missing, and framed by the light of the setting sun. She’s in the same jeans and loose white shirt that hangs off her shoulder as earlier. Her hair’s still down, ends brushing barely past her shoulders and a few strands being rustled by the light breeze. She’s got a canvas set up in front of her and her supplies on a TV stand next to it. He has no idea how she’d managed to fit all of her art supplies in with her clothes, but he sort of figures she’s always been good at making the most of what she has.

She turns her body to dip her paint brush in for a new color or a refreshment of the one she’s using and she must sense him or catch him in her peripheral, because her eyes snap to him and she gives him that small smile that lights up her eyes with a hesitant spark and he hopes it isn’t just his imagination that she only ever seems to use that for him.

He only hesitates slightly—this whole thing is still so _new_ and he knows she’s been hurt in the past and he just really doesn’t want to mess this up—before taking the unspoken invitation and going to join her on the balcony. There’s just a moment of eye contact and small smiles, before she glances away, eyes going to her lap. Her occasional shyness is yet another surprising aspect of hers he’s discovered and he can’t help but wonder what else there is to find out. He hopes he’ll know everything someday, that he’ll have the time to learn all he possibly can about her and that, maybe, she’ll want to know everything about him as well.

She looks back up, gaze now playful, and gestures with her brush to her arm that still hangs in a sling. “Thank God I’m right-handed.” She smirks and he grins, before moving his gaze to the half-filled canvas in a clear inquiry. He can already see the trees of the orchard forming and the beginning of the very sunset that’s in front of them. She turns her attention back to her task, dipping the brush into a pale pink that matches the color of the clouds. She shifts slightly, though, and he gets the impression she’s not used to showing off her art. He’d seen it before, though; her art lined practically every free space of her cabin on the Normandy, paintings and pencil sketches and pictures she’d taken with that ancient camera of hers. He probably should’ve mentioned how good they all were during his short time there, but there’d just been so many things to say then that the sentiment had kind of fallen by the wayside. “It’s been a while since I’ve made anything that wasn’t from memory or space.” Her gaze flickers to the horizon she’s currently copying and she’s got that peaceful look about her she’s had since they got here. “And I’ve only ever seen stuff like this in pictures, so figured I’d give it a try.”

“It’s really good” he says earnestly, but she gives him a look that is amusement with a hint of doubt.

“It’s not even finished.”

He shrugs, grinning playfully. “ _I_ still think it’s nice.”

Her eyes narrow and he knows he’s in trouble as soon as a corner of her lips begins to twitch up. The next thing he knows the hand with the brush is flashing out toward him and something cool and wet is on his nose. He flinches and blinks, before reaching and touching his nose. His fingers come away with pale pink paint. He blinks once more before looking to her and she’s biting her lip and her shoulders are shaking, no doubt from an attempt to hold back her laughter at the dumbfounded look on his face.

Something warm surges through his chest even as he quickly plots his revenge. He dips his finger into a deep green that closely resembles her eyes and lunges. She sees his intent, but he’s quick, wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her in place. She lets out a yelp of protest and drops the brush as she pushes halfheartedly at his chest, even as her smile grows. He smears the paint across her nose and she laughs so fully that she snorts and a fondness so deep grows in his chest that he doesn’t think twice about leaning down and kissing her.

She doesn’t tense like she has the few other times he’s initiated something without notice. Instead, she melts into him, letting out a content sigh as their lips move together. His biotics thrums around them, sliding against her sensually and she nips at his bottom lip in response.

But then something wet and cold is being smeared through his hair and down the side of his face. He pulls back, startled, and looks to her right hand, covered in a light blue, then to her gaze, mischievous. Oh, two could play this game. He dips his fingers back into the green, but she’s quicker this time and uses her shorter height to her advantage, sliding off the barstool and slipping under his arm.

“Just try and catch me!” she calls teasingly, smirking over her shoulder at him as she runs into the house. He laughs and doesn’t hesitate in chasing her, because, so long as she’ll have him, he always will.

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr](http://bxtgrl.tumblr.com/post/157582688227/painting-the-sky). <3


End file.
